


To Have Faith

by race-jackson (Race_Jackson23)



Series: The Valkyrie [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Alternate History, And Other Questions, Angst and Romance, Asgardian Darcy Lewis, Asgardians - Freeform, But I Love It So Deal, Darcy Lewis-centric, Darcy is Sigrun, Darcy is a Valkyrie, How Did Sigrun Become A Valkyrie?, I'm Not Good At Romance Not Gonna Lie, Immortal Origin Story, Jane Foster & Darcy Lewis Friendship, Jane Foster Loves Science, Loss of Identity, Margarita Mondays, Multi, Mythology References, Non-Linear Narrative, Only It Makes More Sense When You Do, Origin Story, POV Darcy Lewis, Please Read Traveller First, Pre-Thor (2011), The Valkyrior, Time Skips, Warrior Darcy, We Got Some Chosen One Bullshit Going Down, Will Tag As I Post More, You don't have to
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-02-22 14:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13168422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Race_Jackson23/pseuds/race-jackson
Summary: Millennia ago, before she was old and jaded, before she lost her almost-religious faith in Asgard and the All-Father, before she was Darcy Lewis, she was Sigrún the Victorious.Another tale of sisterhood; of the Valkyrior and their family, and of the rise of Sigrún the Faithful.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm baaaaaaaack! Sorry for taking so long! I mentioned last time that I was working on a Tasertricks drabble and this is actually it, expanded upon and expanded upon and much longer than I thought it would be. Legit, when I said I had a drabble, I had two paragraphs and they consisted of Loki biting Darcy's tattoo and Darcy flipping him onto his back and having her wicked way with him. I won't hold you up anymore, but please read the end notes after this.

The night had gone quiet. Attendants bustled to and fro on their evening chores, their chatter at a whisper mindful to their guests, for the night had left its youth. Moonlight had long since set in, glowing through the aged window slats and halted only by the soft radiance of candlelight. Even those still enjoying wakefulness had quietened some, their conversation at a gentle hum that proved itself ignorable.

Though the babble of those patrons not yet abed carried to the sleeping quarters, neither Sigrún nor her lover paid them any mind, too caught with each other in bed to notice nightfall. Time, for them, was measured not by the burning of candles or the shadows of sundials but in the breaks between their love-making, and it was only during one of those breaks that they spoke of it.

“This mark …”

A thoughtful expression pulling at his forehead, his voice trailed off. Licking his lips, he traced a slender finger over the dark lines inked into her forearm. With heavy-lidded eyes, she met his virescent gaze and arched an eyebrow, a shadow of a smirk playing a challenge at the corner of her mouth as she did so. He pursed his lips.

“This mark,” he tried again, leaning forward and nipping at the tattoo. “I have seen it before, but I cannot recall where. What does it mean?”

“Need it mean anything?” she deflected.

Stretching out on the bed with all the grace of a particularly lethargic cat, she bared her teeth in a sharp grin that belied the twinge in her chest. She pulled him close so as to leave an almost-bruising kiss on his mouth. Then, in a practised move, she flipped them and straddled his hips. Gleefully revelling in his surprised but pleased expression, she bent down to press another kiss on his lips, that one less bruising than its predecessor but no less potent with its distraction. Or so she thought, for, after a few pleasurable moments, he gently pushed her away and arose to lean back on his elbows, that questioning light still dancing in his eyes.

“You are trying to distract me!” he exclaimed in mock-accusation.

She smirked, leaning down again to kiss him as she murmured, “It is only trying if it fails to work.”

It worked.

They stayed like that for hours, exploring each other’s bodies again and again until exhaustion claimed them both. For her, it was a necessary distraction, though an entirely pleasant one, for the memories that came with her tattoo were sacred and not to be touched by those not of her sisterhood. Better to avoid the topic entirely than to bring up memories too painful to recall, even though she ached at keeping parts of her life hidden from him and it kept her up half the night, arguing with herself.

How easily it would all spill out if only she opened her mouth. He was Asgardian, although she knew not any more of his background, and he knew she was something more than mortal if not Asgardian herself. At the very least he would know of the Valkyrior and that they had fallen, though perhaps not of the details. Before she had left – _before her sisters were murdered_ , a snide voice corrected – all children of Asgard had been taught of them, and she refused to think her old home changed so much as to erase them entirely. Her tale would not confuse him as it would a mortal man.

And he was … safe. Perhaps safe was not the word. Being with him was like wrapping oneself in furs to weather winter’s chill, or holding a blade made to one’s hand. It was comfortable and easy and they could talk for hours about the most inane things. She knew she loved him and he her, but it was not consuming, did not eat away at her like other loves had, and that made her feel all the worse for lying to him.

For he might have been the safe harbour in the storm, but her life was far too tumultuous to involve him. She could not be sure if the All-Father still searched for the remaining Valkyrie, though no doubt many a bounty hunter would be willing to find out for her. That wasn’t to mention that he, too, held dark secrets, the like of which pressed at her chest, and not for the first time, she wondered how she fell so for someone who still had yet to divulge their name.

Despite the tossing and turning, of them, she was first to awaken. As daybreak flooded through the ageing slats on the window, ever the light-sleeping warrior, she had come to consciousness, aware only of the warmth at her side. Contented, she laid still, drinking in her lover’s face and committing every inch to her memory so that in years to come, his features would remain imprinted there, never to fade.

When he was asleep, he looked so completely at peace in a way he could not in wakefulness. There was always a tension in his face, a sort of pinched quality that one could easily miss if they had yet to see him at rest; his jaw clenched, a tightness at the corners of his eyes that pervaded his face even when he was at his happiest and most carefree. She had not realised how truly angry nor how composed he was until she had watched him sleeping. But asleep, all of that faded away until his face was nothing but a smooth plane of pale satin, marred only by the fact that his expressive eyes were closed off to the world.

How she treasured those moments in the early morning, when she awoke earlier than he and all masks fell as if struck by an axe. His walls torn down, bereft of all airs and professed mystery, she could see him for all he truly was. Those moments, where the confused boy hidden beneath the surface became clear in the absence of any mirage. She saw him also in their love-making, in the way he would gaze at her as if a blinded man seeing the sun for the first time, stunned yet wondrous and all the younger for it. Those moments, too, were equally treasured, if not for a slightly different reason.

The lies, his and hers, the _secrets_ … it corrupted that peace, no matter how she tried to banish it from her mind. It gnawed at the love and trust between her and her lover, but more worryingly, it corrupted _herself_. She had _never_ been one to lie and deceive. Even as a child lying had not been a part of her, though her honesty often gained her no friends. That part of her, the part that was starry-eyed and righteous, bled for the chance the break her silence, to find comfort and solace in another. Despite the necessity of it, the lies and the secrets burnt away at the girl of her youth piece by piece until recognising herself in the aftermath was almost impossible.

Her musings distracted her enough that she missed her lover’s first ventures into consciousness. With a soft groan that jolted her out of her thoughts, he opened his eyes only to squint at her, a grimace crinkling his mouth.

“You are staring again,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s unseemly.”

“Considering the things I did to your body last night, it’s unlikely that the _staring_ is unseemly,” she quipped, snuggling into his chest and feeling a weight lift off her own. “Your body is nice to look at, you can hardly blame me for admiring it.”

She needn’t look at his face to know his cheeks had pinked. In what was likely an attempt to distract her from his embarrassed pleasure, he cleared his throat and burrowed into her dark hair. They laid there together, contented.

But after a moment of comfortable silence, he murmured, “You are different this morning. All weighed down, or, well, more so than usual.”

His words were a question without being a question. A probing gesture that was as subtle as a bilgesnipe, it doubled the lead on her tongue. The tight feeling in her chest came back. She shifted in place, gaze fixed on the smooth muscles of his torso in an attempt to avoid the eye-contact he searched for, yet failing to dispel her own sense of unease.

“It’s nothing,” she said finally. She sounded unconvincing even to herself. Trying again, she managed to murmur, “Last night, when you asked of my tattoo, it … caught me off guard.”

“I noticed,” he said softly.

She inhaled. “It is … hard. To talk about.” Feeling him nod into her hair, she continued, “Once, it … it meant something … _better_. Something _happy_. It meant safety and family and love … but now … I know not anymore. It has been tainted by loss and pain and death and … I am unsure if it could ever mean anything else.”

He pulled away from her and his hand came to cup her face. Gently, he guided her face towards his, pressing a kiss to her brow before focusing on her face and avoidant eyes.

“I slept on it,” he answered her confusion. “I slept on it, and tales I learnt as a child came back to me. Tales of valour and defiance that I was told in my nursery by both mother and nursemaid. Tales of women who wore that symbol.”

Their eyes met.

“Tales of the Valkyrie.”

Exhaling sharply, she turned away for but a moment in an effort to compose herself. That moment lengthened, the silence stale yet foreboding, until it proved too much. He sat up and sent her an imploring look, and she was forced to yet again meet his suddenly apologetic gaze.

“I do not wish to upset you. If you wish it, I will never speak of it again. I will banish it from my thoughts and forget that it was ever of interest to me and any that would question you on it, I will silence. I promise you this, not only as a son of Asgard but as the man whose heart you have captured.”

He paused for a beat then continued, seemingly ignorant of the way her pulse quickened.

“But if not, if you wish to speak on it, then you will find me a willing ear. I offer no judgement, nor can I promise that requested counsel be sound, but I offer my shoulder to cry on, my ear to talk to, and I will do so for as long as you have need of me.”

“You baffle me,” she blurted out. To his raised eyebrow, she clarified, “You make me trust you, even though all logic says that I should not. Norns, I know nothing about you, except that you say you are of Asgard. I do not even know your name! And yet, something …” She licked her lips. “Something about you draws me in. Makes me feel safe and wanted.”

“It is because you are safe and wanted,” he said softly. His voice quivered slightly with a tremor that she knew he would vehemently deny if she brought it up. “I admit that I find romance and affection to be tiresome and distracting and hard, and sometimes I may appear to not care for you as others would. But never doubt that I do. Care, that is. I care quite a bit, actually.”

Strangely, the pressure in her chest had eased some. The heaviness of tongue had all but evaporated, and slowly, conscious of the decision before her, she met him face on. As she contemplated the man before her, all too aware that they would be irreparably damaged if she were to deny him despite his promises to the contrary, a memory came to the forefront of her mind.

She had been a little girl then, scared and alone and angry, so angry. Looking back, she would not have blamed Brynhildr for leaving her, for she had truly been unnecessarily cruel despite her justifications. In her mind’s eye, that petulant little child – _so scared and alone and angry_ – demanded from the legendary warrior a reason to trust her.

 _It is not reason you need, little witch, but faith. Faith in the path set before you, faith in the Norns who have placed it at your feet and who, through me, offer this opportunity to you. If you cannot have reason, have_ faith _that all will be as it is meant to_.

Brynhildr had told her to have faith and she _had_. Somewhere, after Hela and the fall and losing the last of her sisters, she had lost it. Far beyond her reach, it, like her, wandered astray. But in that moment, looking at the man she loved and knowing that divulging meant using that faith again, she found it.

And leapt with it.

“We were called the Valkyrior. Once, there was many of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you all convinced me to continue and this is the result. I'm not completely proud of it like I am Traveller. Honestly, I believe Traveller is much better, but that might be because I'm not sure yet how the Loki/Darcy in this works with the other Loki/Darcy scenes I've written (and yes, I have written more in this universe) and also because the edits I was writing just didn't work the way I planned, but screw that, I'm just going to get it out.
> 
> This will be a multi-chaptered flashback fic ft. The Valkyrior. Essentially, this is how the Valkyrior that Sigrún knows (and that I headcanon as of Thor: Ragnarok) came to be. This will not be in chronological order and will not always feature Darcy however Darcy is the one telling the stories, so be mindful that perhaps what happens is a case of unreliable narration and the evolution of storytelling. I have a few ideas of where to go and I'm super thrilled to be going there and exploring more of the Valkyrior and their bonds (as in, our Valkyrie from Ragnarok is gonna be hella prominent and I'm super excited for her to appear).
> 
> Thus, Tasertricks will probably not be particularly prevalent in this fic. Do not fret however, because when writing this fic, I thought it was going to be all Tasertricks, only it became apparent to me that I had two different fics with different tones on my hands. One was this one, with the Valkyrie as the main focus, and the other was the evolution of Norse mythology in the MCU from actual event to legend - AKA the biggest game of whisper down the lane ever ft. the suffering Loki and exasperated Sigrún | Darcy. It's going to be three chapters I think. And that's not to mention the fic set Thor: The Dark World that I've been contemplating for a while now.
> 
> So bare with me guys. I'm doing a lot of research into Norse myths and there's a lot of writing and rewriting going on at the same time that I'm trying to write May We Dance, work my butt off during the worse retail period ever and cope with a lot of stress. It's going to take a bit of patience, so I thank you in advance for your understanding. If this is crap, please let me know so I can curl into a hole and die fix it up, because maybe it's just my tired eyes making me think I can't fix it?
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm backkkkkkk! Much happier with this chapter than the last, but loved the comments on the last all the same. As always, please read the end comments.

The first thing one must understand is that the universe is not finite. In fact, it is not even alone. Multiple universes, multiple realities, all existing and coexisting and intertwining in an infinity that wants for adequate description. Paths walked in one universe may not even be a possibility in another yet some may mirror others so closely that there appear to be no differences. There are even some universes that hold both in some sort of an inexplicable paradox.

In one such paradox, there are two universes. In one, the daughter of Vanaheim known as Sigrún dies alongside her parents. She perishes in pain, but not alone, and the agony she suffers is fleeting and quick. It is not a good death, yet she is with her family, so it is not a bad one either.

In that universe, the gods grow crueller; the wars, more terrible. In that universe, the Valkyrior is diminished to one, and she is more broken than her order, lost and unwanted. In that universe, an astrophysicist stumbles across a legend, but this time, her assistant hears only the faintest of echoes in her ear, the most faded of memories as they come to fore, and so writes it off as the desert playing tricks on the mind. In that universe, quite a bit remains the same, but it is _different_ , too.

But that is not the universe in which this story unfolds.

In the other universe, Sigrún of Vanaheim survives her parents. Her path changes, though perhaps not for the better, and at ten summers, she becomes a Valkyrie of Asgard.

And so, her fate is sealed.

~

At first, she thought nothing of her closeness with Brynhildr. Bryn was the oldest of them all, their leader as well as their sister, and she had found Sigrún. She was the one who encouraged her to join, to become a part of something bigger, so to Sigrún, it made sense for Bryn to be her guide through that new world she was a part of. There was nothing strange about her personalising Sigrún’s lessons, at least in Sigrún’s eyes.

It was Kára who pointed it out to her.

“She found us,” she stressed over the evening meal, almost a decade after Sigrún had joined the sisterhood. Kára, an Aesir, had been there for many more decades at that point, though the longevity of her race left her as youthful as a human teen and so she only appeared a few years older than Sigrún. Her dark eyes gave her away, though, the maturity of them pinning her younger sister in place as she continued. “She found us all, and yet our lessons are still communal. None of us has special one-on-one sessions. I heard Geiravör talking about how strange it was with Herja, that your lessons are with Brynhildr only.”

Hrist, seated next to Kára, nodded earnestly, and that was what gave Sigrún true pause. Honey-haired Hrist was hesitant to shake the foundations, for all that her name evoked the opposite, so for her to react such gave Sigrún a true glimpse into the peculiarity of the situation.

But she had to be certain. “There are no personal mentorships?” she stressed. “None at all? But what of your mentorship with Róta? And yours, Hrist, with Svipul?”

The two were already shaking their heads. Then, glancing around the hall to check if one of the others was listening to them, they clarified it for her.

Of all the sisters that had joined since the order’s inception by Bryn’s hand, only Sigrún had not learnt communally. The others, she was told, took lessons from all the older sisters, learning the art of warfare by the hand of not one, but many. Though it was true that they would later find mentors amongst the older sisters, that mentorship never impeded upon group sparring sessions or archery competitions, and younger sisters were always encouraged to engage sisters other than their mentors.

And so, Sigrún started to watch, and it became apparent very quickly how odd her upbringing truly was.

For as long as she had been with the Valkyrior, Sigrún had been taught only by Bryn’s hand. She learnt how to draw a bow, how one’s knife could be used to the fullest extent, the art of the blade and so on under Bryn’s tutelage alone, and it was not all she was taught. Lessons about politics, languages and seidr, about Asgard itself, were passed from Bryn to Sigrún as mothers passed heirlooms to their daughters.

It all stood in stark contrast to the learning of the other sisters, who participated in group sparring sessions and informal quiz sessions when not on assignment. While Bryn also partook in their education and never begrudged Sigrún’s involvement in other activities, she implicitly forbade her from joining them at practice or seeking instruction from another of the older sisters. The others did not have such a restraint placed upon them, she soon realised, and Kára and Hrist’s explanations grew more and more true with each passing day.

It left her confused but also resolute. She planned to talk to Bryn about it, and so thought that the matter would be resolved quickly.

~

The matter was not resolved quickly, for Bryn did _not_ want to talk of it. In fact, she actively avoided doing so for another decade.

The first time Sigrún spoke of it, Bryn brushed her away. It had hurt, though she tried not to let it show, and after such a reception, it took her some time to build up her confidence again to ask. The second and third times, Bryn was surprised but no less dismissive than the first.

Sigrún had become infuriated at that. Upon joining the order, Bryn had told her that life as a Valkyrie was not about blindly following those in front of her, but having the courage to stand up and question them. Bryn’s dismissal felt like a failure of that tenet, a hypocritical spit in the face. Yet her anger had done her no favours, and by the fourth time she brought it up, Bryn had had enough.

“Where is your faith?” she had railed, the hurt in her eyes palpable from one hundred yards away. “All I ask of you is your faith! Where is your _faith_?”

As unjust as it was, in that moment, Sigrún was stunned into speechlessness. She could only turn away from her sister, leaving hurriedly so as to not share her tears. Later, Bryn had come to apologise for her harshness and the relationship between them had mended, slowly but steadily, over time.

Yet Sigrún could not help but notice that nothing was said of the training. Bryn did not apologise for singling her out or training her differently, nor did she even mention expanding Sigrún’s experiences to learning with the other sisters. She simply continued as she had since Sigrún had joined them. And while it made bands tighten around Sigrún’s chest, while it like a burning anger there, she spoke no more of it, no longer willing to cause strife between them but all the while wondering at what she could have had.

They spoke not of it for years after that. It truly was a decade later when they spoke on it, and that time, it was not for Sigrún’s efforts, but for Brynhildr’s wavered resolve.

~

Midday in winter was curiously warm. Though they had not yet fallen fully under its thrall, the first of the snows had started to fall in the week before, the last of these remaining where the others had melted away. Despite that, it felt as if of springtime, not as hot as summer but warmer than winter ought to be. The glade where Sigrún practised was further down the mountain, too, near the base, so it lacked the cooler temperatures of the summit.

That did not bode well for the sisters at practice. The warmer it was, the quicker Sigrún found herself tiring, and so it was with great reluctance that she faced her mentor with a sword at hand.

_Thwack!_

“Again.”

**_Thwack!_ **

“Stop. Adjust your stance. And again.”

_Swish thwack!_

“Good.”

Despite her breathlessness, the snort that escaped Sigrún could not be held back. _Good_ was meant for a success, not another failure, in her opinion. A more apt descriptor would better. She stepped aside, sword tip pointed to the ground and gestured for pause with her free hand, all the while trying to slow her breathing.

Acquiescing with a short nod, Bryn also stepped away. Though she was much less out of breath than her younger comrade, she too had the sweat of her labour on her brow. Her usually flawless hair had escaped its leather thong in wisps that bothered about her eyes, but she paid no mind, more concerned with Sigrún’s form than tucking the tendrils away.

“You doubt yourself,” she stated after a moment, quirking an eyebrow. Hands scarred by centuries of battle joined to clasp her sword pommel perpendicular to the ground. “You doubt yourself, so your stance is too weak to withstand the blows. Do not doubt yourself.”

Sigrún huffed. “That’s hard when your opponent is _you_.”

Chuckling and nodding with a knowing grin, Bryn sheathed her sword. She stepped in front of Sigrún, that smile still lighting up her face, and braced a hand on her younger sister’s shoulder.

“Aye, I will not deny that I am a difficult opponent to face,” she said, dimples softening as a familiar merriment twinkled in her eyes. “Perhaps one of the hardest. But that bodes well for you on the field of battle.”

That raised an eyebrow.

“How do you figure?” Sigrún prodded.

Having sheathed her own blade, the two fell into step together as they made their way back up the winding path to the temple. More focused on her own feet, as the path up the mountains could be treacherous and slippery in winter, Sigrún almost missed the fond look Bryn sent her but she certainly missed the haunted one that preceded it. If she hadn’t, she perhaps would have been more cautious and mindful in her questions, but as she had, she fell into them with all the grace of a bilgesnipe at a ceramic stall.

Even so, she could hardly miss the measured pause Bryn took before answering, “Even if you cannot beat me, from our practices you will be able to fend off most foes. It is preparing for a hailstorm even though you know how unlikely it is to occur.”

Sigrún considered it for a moment. Though it left a bad taste in her mouth, there was some logic to the argument. Yet it was still flawed. Learning from a master was important, yes, but expanding one’s teaching pool was too. Doubtless, her sister believed what she was saying, but as the years passed and she watched the others grow in skill while she remained stagnant, she couldn’t help but feel cheated by the singularity of her instruction.

“But how will mine own skills develop if I do not practice with different fighters and different styles?” she said after a moment. “I have only ever faced you, sister, so how am I to form a true estimation of capabilities? Of potential?”

Bryn’s eyes were sombre, tightened and pinched at the corners. Not for the first time, Sigrún found herself struck by how ancient those eyes were in comparison to the smooth planes of her sister’s face. As if perpetually haunted by time’s victims, those eyes were ever grieving, though it was moments when Sigrún or her youngest sisters displayed a willingness to fight that it became obvious. Under their scrutiny, Sigrún was exposed, all her hopes and dreams laid bare for the older woman to see. Nothing was hidden away.

Finally seeing whatever she was looking for, Bryn nodded.

“You wish to face the others?” she asked.

Sigrún nodded slowly, her gaze never failing to search Bryn’s face for hints of disapproval. There were none, for the older warrior had assumed a mask of polite inquiry that only hinted at her own discomfort.

Emboldened by the response, Sigrún replied, “We are a sisterhood, a warrior order of the finest calibre, yet I have never trained with the others. And I know not _why_. The others are not treated so.”

As she watched, Bryn wilted. She stopped entirely on the slippery rock, and Sigrún ran into her, managing at last moment to avoid skidding and falling over by grabbing Bryn’s arm. Acting quickly, Bryn steadied her, and in that moment, the bright woman who had found Sigrún shone through, unburdened by her grief for the briefest of time. When she disappeared, it was with an arched eyebrow and barely concealed smirk that, too, faded away to seriousness.

“Do you truly wish to know?” asked Brynhildr. In that moment, it was obvious in her stance and face that she was more the stern warrior leader Brynhildr than kind-hearted sister Bryn. All softness had left her, and only steel remained. “You have asked me before, but you were not ready then. Now, it seems, the time is upon us. So I must ask: do you truly wish to know why you are different?”

Sigrún was already nodding before Bryn could finish. It felt too easy a win, after the years of tenseness on the issue, but Sigrún the Victorious was not one to turn away such a gift.

“Tell me.”

And so Brynhildr of Asgard did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's definitely more focused on the sisters than I intended. But you know what, that's a good thing. Marvel needs some sisterly moments, there are far too few. There's a bit of mystery, a bit of a cliffhanger, and honestly, you're not going to find out what Bryn is on about til much later. But see what I mean when I said this fic was more a collection of oneshots than a plotted out fic of its own? The narrative is going to be all over the place, definitely not linear. Also, pacing, what pacing?
> 
> Speaking of, Jane _is_ going to be in this. At first, I didn't think she would, but where's Darcy without Jane? Especially in this 'verse, because they the best of bros. And also because I had a really good idea for how the next chapter is going to go, and it doesn't work without Jane.
> 
> Also, I've got some of that overbearing sister Bryn going on here. Not as left of field as it seems in Traveller, ay? Something funny with that as well, in the fourth chapter we're going to be getting into Bryn's story a bit. Why is she so sad if she's got a band of _immortal_ sisters with her for all eternity? Are they immortal yet? Has Bryn been living her life watching those of her order die off while she remains forever young? Maybe. Good times. 
> 
> Anyway, leave a comment or a kudos and feel free to message me on Tumblr! I'm @race-jackson. Thank!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again after a long time away. Explanations in the end notes! Hope you enjoy! Thanks also to @queen-of-dancing-stars for her headcanon with Puente Antiguo.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The fraying edges of Darcy’s shirt became quite interesting to her under the accusing harshness of Jane’s stare.  It was a plaid thing, ugly and holey and bought at a street market in Sweden, of all places, over a decade ago, but she loved to wear it. Many a night in New Mexico had been spent curling up under the stars in that shirt. The damned thing had served her well, from being a useful pyjama top to serving as a focal point to avoid Jane.

“Look at me.”

Well, almost serving.

Blue met brown squarely, unwavering though quite apologetic. For all that she didn’t want to face Jane, Darcy was hardly one to back down. No matter the task, if it was expected of her, she would put all her efforts into it, and so she met Jane’s gaze like a brave woman walks herself to the chopping block: full of trepidation but resolute nonetheless.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jane repeated. Upon facing her, the pain etched into her face was obvious. From the tightness of her eyes to the pinched mouth, every line, every muscle, was troubled. Her lower lip trembled as she asked, “Didn’t you trust me?”

But Darcy was already shaking her head.

“It wasn’t like that at all, Janie,” she said immediately, her gut wrenching painfully. “ _At all_. I promise you, I trust you with my life.”

“Just not your secrets.”

The words were like a brand on Darcy’s heart. They dug in, anchored themselves in place, refusing to budge even at the rationalisation that keeping those secrets from Jane kept them both safe. And if the words were sore and impervious, Jane herself was worse. The bottom of her lips curled sardonically but the sheen of tears gathered there in her eyes made it worse. The tears painted a picture that took Jane from angry to seething, fuming even, as she hurled venom down on Darcy’s facade.

“It wasn’t like that,” echoed Darcy, thrown off. Her chest twinged, made uncomfortable by Jane’s mere aura. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I promise, it wasn’t.”

“No?” challenged Jane. She folded her arms over her chest as she stared Darcy down. “What was it like, then? Explain it to me.”

Pausing, Darcy took a moment to collect her thoughts and arrange them into coherency. After lying for over four years, a comprehensible answer, if not one of the most basic information, was the least she owed Jane, or at least what she _felt like_ she owed Jane. But it had been such a long time since she’d last shared her truth, and so finally she looked up at Jane, at a loss.

“I don’t know how,” she admitted. “I don’t know where to start.”

Eyes hard, Jane pulled a chair in front of Darcy and sat down bodily astride it. She focused those hard eyes on the older woman opposite her until Darcy could do nothing but squirm as Jane raised a thin eyebrow.

“How about the beginning?”

~

_Once, there had been two sisters who loved each other dearly._

_Before Asgard was the empire it was, before its gilded halls and blinded people, when it was young but strong and not yet wrong beyond belief, there were two sisters who loved each other. They played in the gardens that would become those of the palace’s, swam in the waters at the edge of their world before the burning rainbow bridge even crossed the minds of their people. The world was their nursery, every rock and leaf a would-be toy, and everywhere they went, joy followed, for they were the daughters of Asgard and beloved by all._

_Though destined to be passed over by age and tradition both, they were the jewels of the kingdom, the cherished daughters of Asgard’s king. More beloved to he than his own heir, as the girls grew, their father, the King, resolved to ensure their safety by sequestering them away in his hall. They could be seen only by the most trusted of attendants, he had ruled, and so for many years, they remained locked in a masquerade of a home, all the while blocked from that which was truly their home._

_Asgard. From rocky mountain paths to a sparkling ocean dropping off into nothingness. Those meadows of butterflies hidden by strong oaks to bubbling streams with fish that danced in the water as they splashed into great lakes. And people, too, with bright faces and clothes, who twirled and spun with abandon in the newly-made streets to songs only they could hear. They of great skill, the jewellers and weavers and singers and others, those of sword and shield, of spear and axe, rune and spell. That was Asgard true._

_That was home to the king’s daughters._

_The king did not see how Asgard held his daughters in its heart, and in his ignorance and his fear, he overlooked that his daughters had Asgard in theirs also. For they too had the blood of their people, the blood of warriors, running in their veins. Every breath they took was not only of but for their homeworld, and they loved it as fiercely as they loved each other._

_And if not for his ignorance, if not for the underestimation of his daughters, the king of Asgard would have known this. And he would not have lost them._

~

“You were a princess?”

Darcy couldn’t help herself. The snort that escaped her was loud and obnoxious. Startled by it, Jane threw her an offended arch of the eyebrow, and Darcy forced herself to take a breath and calm down.

Trying to hide her smile, she answered, “Hardly.” Jane’s eyebrow rose higher up her forehead, compelling Darcy to elaborate. “My lineage doesn’t extend past lowlife witches and rebel scum. I’ve fucked a royal or two in my time, but that’s as close as I come. And Asgard? I was orphaned by Asgardian arrogance, not born of it.”

“So how is that the start?” Jane demanded, throwing up her hands. “What has that got to do with you _lying to me_?”

“You asked me for the beginning,” Darcy reminded sharply. At Jane’s uneasy squirm, her eyes softened with understanding. After all, learning that the closest thing you had to a sister was an immortal alien with magic powers was pretty hard to come to terms with. “I appreciate your frustration, I do, but you wanted me to start at the beginning. _That’s_ where this all starts. How I came to be here, who I am: it all started then.”

Jane’s eyebrows were still drawn together in confusion and anger. At that moment, Darcy knew she had to bite the bullet and come completely clean, no bullshitting, lest she risk further damaging their relationship.

So she did. She told Jane everything.

There was too much at risk otherwise.

~

Darcy and Jane did not get along at first.

Two very different people from the start, they were bound to clash. The mindsets they existed in by study area alone assured that, at the very least. Jane was physics and numbers, living her life by rules and understandings gleaned through scientific method, and while Darcy did too, her rules were measured by the shifting variables of societal change and adaptable political theories.  Not only this, but Darcy’s age had given her an appreciation for living life unrestrained and unhindered where Jane was much more controlled and calm, her interactions observant rather than hands-on like Darcy’s. It was simply far too much for the two to reconcile, at first.

They argued near constantly. Most of it was little things, like notes recorded improperly or no money being deposited into the food account, but there were bigger issues underlying this too. Frustrated with an intern who (she thought) knew nothing of Jane’s field of study, she often made comments about this lack of understanding and lack of understanding general science too. Undoubtedly fuelled by the story fed to her, for a long time Jane clearly thought Darcy’s field, and therefore Darcy herself, was undisciplined and lacking.

If she weren’t an immortal warrior goddess that had interacted with many such people before, Darcy would be offended. But as it was, she was used to people doubting her, to underestimating her abilities, and so had developed a passive-aggressive streak over the years to combat it. Luckily, it always gave a perfectly polite impression while achieving the intended effect of annoying the person in question, and it was no different with Jane.

The arguments, though, had made her question what she was doing at first. Ever the pragmatist, over the centuries she had kept tabs on the research the humans undertook that might lead them close to Asgard and its secrets. Those tabs had the unintended effect of involving her in large, ofttimes dastardly plots and conspiracies, with the consequence that whenever something popped up, she was appropriately wary. This was no different with Jane’s research.

When her rune casting had put her on the path of interning for Jane, she had been rightly sceptical. Not only was it a marked change from the previous casting (that casting being the political science degree Jane scorned), but one that drew her so closely into a world she had thoroughly rejected. If Jane Foster managed what she hoped to achieve (and by her published works, it was entirely possible), Asgard would be opened to Earth on Earth’s terms for the first time. But the runes had never led her wrong before, so she buckled down and dealt with it by applying for the internship.

Following the incident with Loki in New Mexico, though, Darcy had to admit that the runes had been right once again. Between Thor’s arrival and the Destroyer attack, Puente Antiguo and everyone in it was lucky to have her, even if she was, for all intents and purposes, unarmed. If she hadn’t been there evacuating the town, who knew how many fatalities would have occurred?

She found also that Jane had relaxed towards her. Where the scientist had been slightly cold and standoffish before, in the aftermath of their shared experience, Jane warmed. She was less likely to start arguments and more aware when she did so, quick to apologise for being unreasonable. Due to missing her newfound godly beau, she was also determined but mopey, and that made for good rant sessions with copious margaritas. It would thus not be inaccurate to say that theirs was a bond forged by explosions and alcohol.

“And I don’t know, did he just not want me? Was I not good enough?”

Darcy shook her head emphatically, the haze of alcohol sitting behind her eyes making her world swim. She added some harder Asgardian liquor to hers when Jane wasn’t watching but misjudged the dosage slightly so instead of feeling buzzed, she was completely sloshed.

“No, Janie, no, you’re perfect,” she said. Feeling her concentration wander, she squinted pointedly at Jane. “Perfect. He’s stupid.”

Jane nodded, too drunk to even sit up.

“Stupid,” she repeated. “He’s stupid. I’m great.”

“Yep,” Darcy agreed. “You are great.”

Jane was quiet for a moment before muttering, “He’s still hot though.”

“Yeah,” sighed Darcy. The memory of Thor wandering out of the bathroom and putting on a shirt flicked to the front of her mind. “Those abs.”

“Right,” said Jane, sighing. She sat up clumsily, almost falling over twice, and cradled her head in her hands for a moment. “Such nice abs. Are they worth potentially ripping a hole in time and space though?”

Darcy considered it for a moment.

“I wouldn’t worry, the universe is pretty versatile,” she replied. “Like how long have the Asgardians been fucking around with this shit and nothing too bad has happened?”

With that, their friendship was sealed. Forged by explosions and alcohol it may be, it was cemented by the hours the two spent piecing Jane’s theories together in an attempt to return the beautiful abs of the God of Thunder to Earth. And it meant that the next time someone came for Jane, Darcy would have more than a taser at hand.

~

Darcy found herself in a pub of all places.

Friday night in Shoreditch was booming as always, but there were a few quieter bars down side streets if you knew where to look. In one such bar, away from the buzz of trendy nightclubs, business was muted but steady, full of regulars rather than tourists looking for a night out to remember. There, with the dingy seating and cracked tables, where the food was good but the company pleasantly non-existent, the music strummed on at a low murmur and the drinks flowed past midnight.

Incidentally, it was where she found him, the one thing she had hidden from Jane, too. It wasn’t surprising really, considering their history, to find one another in a pub.

Stirring a straw through her Pimm’s and lemonade, she had been sitting at the bar when the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and a shiver ghosted down her spine. It was a familiar feeling, although one she had yet to experience for a long time. Resisting the urge to turn around, she cursed and slid a hand into her purse to check her vibroblade. While she did, though, he dropped gracefully into the chair next to her with a prolonged sigh.

“How wonderful it is to see you again,” he murmured, sounding all too sincere. She had to give him credit where it was due: he was a _very_ good liar. If she hadn’t known him better, she might think him honestly sentimental. “My dear Sigyn.”

She nodded, focused on her drink as she acknowledged, “Loki. I hoped you were dead”

Surprise coloured his face only to be overtaken by a frown. She could only wonder how much of it was real. With Loki, one could never be sure.

“Are you angry with me?” he said finally. His frown grew deeper. “Whatever for? Not for that business with the snake, _surely_ , it has been one thousand years.”

“I’ll always be angry for the business with the snake. You were an ass.”

He chuckled, and they both went quiet again. After a moment passed, the supposedly-dead God of Mischief signalled the bartender over. Gesturing at her almost-empty glass, he held up two fingers and the bartender nodded, delivering two identical tumblers of Pimm’s and lemonade to the Asgardians without a word.

“Tell me, wife,” said Loki, inclining his glass to the bartender in thanks, “why do you truly wish me dead?”

“I am not your wife,” she deflected. Raising her own glass in mock toast, she drank deeply as her thoughts flickered to the destruction of a city she knew so well.

“According to the humans you are,” he said, corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. The green fire in his eyes danced mockingly. “The most loyal of wives, too, to save me from such a fate.”

“According to the humans you fucked a horse and had a mutated foal with six legs that your father now rides into battle. I wouldn’t think you hold human opinion in such high esteem,” she said seriously, enjoying how that fire flickered with indignation. “And besides, I didn’t save you because I was loyal, I saved you because I owed you a debt. It was repaid and now we’re nothing.”

The bar no longer held the appeal it had before his arrival, and with her chips finished, she had no reason to stay. Throwing back her drink, she got up to leave but found herself halted when Loki grabbed her arm. Her eyebrows rose up her face with incredulity as she stared at the offending hand.

“Stay,” he pled.

“Let go of me,” she demanded, ignoring his request.

He did, and she wasted no time leaving. Unfortunately, neither did he. As she walked out into the cool night air, he followed her. They fell into step, strolling beside each other as Darcy made her way back to Jane’s apartment, sure that he would leave her once they came anywhere near his older brother.

Though would he? Loki was unpredictable at the best of times, a tempestuous storm of a person that seemed impulsive and fickle to the untrained eye. But to Darcy, who had known him as a young man coming to grips with himself and also through Thor’s tales of an older harder man, every move was a calculated step in a greater scheme that he would not be swayed from, hidden by his reputation for impulsivity and unpredictability. It meant that his intentions with her were impossible to discern, and that meant that she wasn’t sure how far he’d go with the ruse of his death.

“You still never told me why you are angry with me,” he said when they were about twenty minutes from Jane’s. “Last we spoke, you were not so antagonistic.”

“Like you said, it’s been one thousand years. A lot can happen in that time.”

Loki’s gait faltered and he stopped in the middle of the walkway, but Darcy continued on. Sternly, she reminded herself not to look back, knowing that he would take it differently to how she would like. As such, focused on returning to Jane’s, she didn’t see the open-mouthed stare he sent her way. If she had, she would have known that he was not yet finished with her.

Halfway down the road when he had yet to join her, Darcy relaxed, only to jump when he appeared at her side once again.

“Fucki– Loki!”

“Are you angry with me for ending our amorous entanglement?” he questioned without preamble.

“Hardly,” she said, recovering herself and stalking onwards. “I mean, would it have been nice to have been told in person? Yes. Of course. What girl wants to be broken up with via letter? It’s like the medieval equivalent of breaking up via text message.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“I understand my behaviour was a “dick move”, as modern humans would say,” he said, that eyebrow rising. “But–”

“Ok, stop,” she cut him off. “That “dick move”? Not why I’m pissed. I’m pissed about the other dick move. Y’know, the one where you attacked New York and tried to enslave the entire human race by aligning yourself with Thanos? Attacked _my_ home planet and friends of _my_ friend? Remember that?”

“Oh,” he murmured.

“ _Oh_ ,” emphasised Darcy. “That’s right, _oh_.”

It was late at night, sure, but not dark enough yet that Darcy couldn’t see the perplexed expression on his face. He was gaping slightly, as if he couldn’t find the words to say to her, and that, more than anything made her lose her cool.

“And how about before that,” she said, gradually getting louder, “when you tried to murder your brother and ended up attacking a townful of innocent people? And when you tried to destroy Jotunheim? What about that?”

He remained silent. Her heart wrenched, anger growing uncomfortably hot in her chest.

“You’ve killed so many people, and for what?” She shook her head. “Who were you trying to hurt? Odin, for lying to you? Newsflash, Loki! That had nothing to do with Midgard or Jotunheim! Odin doesn’t care about us! The only one you hurt apart from us was you!”

“You don’t understand!” he snarled.

He took a step towards her. Darcy’s vibroblade was at his throat in a heartbeat. Frozen, he shot her a hurt look.

“Don’t,” she growled. “Test. Me.”

Stepping back, he raised his hands in surrender. An expression of contrition overtook his face as he straightened up. He gestured that they continue walking and, with only fifteen minutes to Jane’s left, Darcy found herself acquiescing.

Changing the topic, he asked her, “What is your name these days? I assume you no longer go by Sigyn.”

Sighing deeply, she considered ignoring him but decided he’d be more of a pain if she refrained from indulging him. He was the type of man to always get bored quickly when he got what he wanted.

“Darcy,” she replied, switching off the vibroblade and replacing it close at hand in her arm holster. “I’m not going to play your games. Why are you here, Loki? What do you want?”

He was quiet. And then he responded. Despite her well-justified caution, when he spoke, her knees felt too weak to hold herself up and she found it hard to catch her breath. It reminded her of why they had fallen in with one another in the first place.

“I thought, perhaps …” He trailed off. “We loved each other, once. That was real, for me, and I know it was for you as well. And I thought that, perhaps, you might want to … but I see I was wrong.”

Her heart panged even as she stood resolute in the face of his uncertainty.

“You were,” she said simply, meeting his gaze with an unwavering certainty that belied the turmoil she felt. “Though Thor told us you died only a few weeks ago … to me, you have been dead a long time.”

Nodding, he withdrew. He was quiet again, although he lacked the airs he had in the silences before that, and Darcy took that moment to step away from him. With a final glance over her shoulder, she walked away.

For years since they’d parted, she felt conflicted about Loki. It had only gotten worse the more he resurfaced. First in Puente Antiguo and then again in New York, the destruction and havoc he wreaked sought only to torment the memories she had had of a bright young man and his penchant for mischief. She was not blind, she knew that he had a darker side even then, but the man he had become was impossible to reconcile with the man she had known.

And so, when she was stopped in her tracks by a single question, the answer was right on her tongue.

“I did feel something when I heard you were dead,” she said, refusing to turn around. It would be all too hard to say if she saw his face. “I felt relieved.”

Relieved, because the questions would torment her no longer. Relieved, because she need not berate herself anymore for being so blind to his faults. Relieved, because she would not have to stop him herself.

A swish of his cape was all that told her he was gone.

With that done, she started walking to Jane’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of stuff going on there, lots of stuff. What was that with Darcy and Loki? Who are the sisters? Do Jane and Darcy still Margarita Mondays? These are the questions.
> 
> Anyway, I'm sorry for taking so long. I've been dealing with dog sickness and swamped with work and going back to uni stuff, and this story took a back seat in favour of May We Dance. I'm still kinda eh about this chapter, but it has a bit of info there, so I suppose its a bit of an info dump chapter?
> 
> In other news, I've also been working really hard on an accompanying story set during Darcy (Sigrún) and Loki's initial relationship. It'll be called Mythos, and the plan was to post it when Traveller got 300 kudos, but with it only four off and Mythos only partly written, that doesn't look likely. I want it completely written and checked before I post anything, and of course, I need to continue this and May We Dance at the same time, so fingers crossed for March? 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feel free to comment or leave a kudos, and come check me out on Tumblr where I'm @race-jackson.


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